Immediate Post Prandial Upper Abdominal Distension
by Rostand
Summary: Warning: Icky girl stuff discussed. Hoshi gets her 'monthly visitor', and Q decides to share the love. A fic for every girl or woman who ever suffered the Cramps From Hell. Now reader-friendly format!


**Immediate Post Prandial Upper Abdominal Distension **

or 

When Malcolm Started PMSing 

_**M-Preg:** Since there exists no fanfic genre of 'M-PMT' or 'M-bloody awful period pain', this is one outlet to make your characters get all the suffering of being female with none of the benefits. Bwahahaahahaa!_ ~ The Horrifically Honest Guide to Fanfiction Terms, Lady Alyssa and Random Dent 

**Author's Note:** Why shouldn't there be a genre of M-bloody awful period pain? Consider this the first of many. I feel like crap, and thus the crew of the Enterprise must feel my pain. I am not exaggerating in the slightest, our boys experience no more pain than I do on a monthly basis. Oh, and for those of you who haven't read 'I've Got Q-Babe', a female Q has adopted the NX-01, her trademarks being a flap of the hand and a puff of green smoke when she changes things, and her customary ensemble is a command TOS miniskirt. 

Archer frowned as he strode through the ship. That morning one of Hoshi's subordinates had taken her place, informing him that she was too ill to work. Concerned, he had called sickbay at the end of the shift, but Phlox reported haven't having seen her that day, or the day before. Now, he was determined to get to the bottom of this. He paused before the petite woman's door and waited for her to let him in. 

"Come," came the soft invitation, and Archer stepped into the room, expecting Hoshi to be either a) writhing about on the floor from pain, or b) in traction. What he did see was Hoshi calmly sitting up on the bed, reading a novel, with a steaming mug beside her. When she looked up to see who her visitor was and saw him standing there, she almost scrambled out of the bed to stand before him. 

"Sir? Is there something wrong?" 

"I heard you were sick," Archer said, still checking for any outward sign of illness and seeing none. "I thought I'd see how you were doing. You seem fine to me." 

She blushed slightly." It comes and goes, sir. I'm feeling fine at the moment." 

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" he asked, raising a mental eyebrow at her comment. It looked like a mental health day to him, and nobody had time for those on this mission. 

"Well, I, um, it's uh . . ." Now she was really blushing, and dropped her head so she couldn't meet his eyes. "It's, uh, cramps, sir." 

"Cramps?" Archer couldn't believe his ears. She was taking a day off work for womanly troubles? Doesn't she know how valuable this mission was? 

"Yes, sir." 

Archer shook his head. "Hoshi, I want you back on duty tomorrow. We don't have time for things like this." 

"But sir –" she began, snapping her head up to look at him 

"I mean it, Ensign!" Archer said. "Deal with it, but don't let this . . . problem interfere with your duties," he said, starting to turn away. 

"Yes, sir," she said miserably, and watched him go. The moment after the door slid shut she suddenly doubled over, clutching at her stomach with one hand and clapping the other over her mouth. She lunged for the bathroom and retched, her half-digested breakfast coming back to visit her. When the last heave had subsided, she leaned heavily on the toilet, struggling to regain her equilibrium. _Damn men_, she thought with uncharacteristic vehemence. Usually she quite like Captain Archer. He was usually a fair guy, and didn't begrudge his crew their occasional bouts with illness. But he just didn't understand. 

Hoshi staggered to her feet and curled up in a ball on her bed, both arms wrapped around her abdomen as her insides suddenly clenched and unclenched, roiling like a lake of lava and inflicting about as much pain. 

*** 

The next morning, Hoshi was in her usual place on the bridge. If she looked a bit pale, no one commented. She hunched over her console, surreptitiously massaging her stomach every once in a while when the cramps redoubled. _Deep breaths, girl, deep breaths_, she told herself, trying to focus on her work. It didn't work very well._ Only a couple more days. Please, let it only be a couple more days. Why did the Period From Hell have to strike now? I only got these when I was a teenager!_

After eight long, agonizing hours, the shift finally ended. Hoshi had only managed to keep from vomiting once by sheer force of will, and the cramps were starting to distract her more than was safe. She briefly considered meeting Travis for some supper, but decided against it. She was fairly sure she wouldn't be able to keep anything down right now. Instead, she just walked as calmly back to her quarters as she could, popped a couple of pain medication pills she kept in her room, crawled into bed, and tried to sleep. 

Far, far away – or quite close, depending on which theory of spacetime relativity you consider – Hoshi's pain caught the attention of someone. Someone who was very interested in the intrepid crew of the NX-01. Someone who was very interested in the intrepid crew of the NX-01 and making their lives just that little bit better. Someone who now began to grin. 

*** 

Hoshi breathed a sigh of relief as she slid into her chair the next morning on the bridge. The Cramps From Hell had abated about halfway through the night, and she hadn't felt a single twinge from her reproductive organs since. She had even managed to have an entire bagel with cream cheese, and it showed no signs of coming back for a visit. She was still feeling a bit faint and a faint sheen of cold sweat had a tendency to appear on her forehead, but she was okay. The shift was uneventful, the only thing breaking the monotony was a heavy cluster of spatial anomalies that Travis had to navigate around. Hoshi's cramps had seemed to have completely disappeared, and she was almost humming as she worked. 

About five hours after coming on duty, one of the crew, a young woman who looked vaguely familiar, hurried by Hoshi's console, the communications officer not paying her much attention, but she looked up suddenly, startled, as a warm hand squeezed her shoulder supportively, but when Hoshi looked around the woman was gone. Then she was distracted by something. Someone, actually. 

Malcolm had suddenly gone deathly pale. He slapped one hand to his mouth, and the slight sound drew Trip's attention. "Malcolm?" he asked, concerned, rising from his station and standing in front of Malcolm's console. "You okay?" 

The Brit swallowed heavily, obviously making an effort to control himself. "Yes, Commander. I'm fine. I just suddenly felt . . . nauseous." 

"You're white as a sheet!" Archer exclaimed, glancing over towards the tactical console. 

"I'm fine, sir," Malcolm repeated, but his voice quavered. 

"Get down to sickbay," the captain said, concern creasing his forehead. "Have Phlox take a look at you." 

As Malcolm made his way from the bridge, no one noticed the faint traces of green smoke dissipating into the ventilation system. 

*** 

"I can't explain it, Captain," Phlox said, folding his hands in front of him and looking around his sickbay. Every bed was filled, and almost twice that number were sitting on the floor or leaning against the walls. Archer had come down in response to the doctor's summons just about an hour after Malcolm had almost tossed his cookies. "I've requested a full scan of the ventilation systems of the ship for any sign of an airborne virus, but I can't see how it would have come aboard in the first place." He sighed. "So far, I've recorded symptoms of varying intensity of gastrointestinal pain, headaches, dizziness, nausea, lack of focus, bleariness of vision, and in some cases, mood swings. I've ordered those with the less severe symptoms back to their quarters." 

Archer looked at the Denobulian, and noticed for the first time that he was leaning heavily on nearby table, and was pale and sweating slightly. "Phlox, you look like you've come down with it yourself." 

Phlox shook his head. "I'm fine, Captain. I must continue examining these men, and try to find a cure for this." 

"Men?" Archer frowned at his phrasing. Usually the doctor was very particular about using inclusive language. Then he took another look around the sickbay. They were all men. Not a single woman seemed to be affected. "None of them have been female?" 

Phlox shook his head. "Not one. The only woman I've seen today have been Crewman Hardiman, with minor plasma burns on her right hand." 

Archer shook his head. "Keep working on a cure. Make sure you get someone to help you if your condition gets worse." 

"Of course, Captain." 

"Keep me posted. I'll be on the bridge." Archer turned and began to stride towards the door, but was suddenly hit by such crippling pain in his abdomen that he dropped to one knee, his face suddenly deathly pale. Immediately Phlox was at his elbow, helping him to a nearby bed, whose occupant vacated it for his CO. 

"You are going nowhere," Phlox said firmly, then stepped over to the com panel quickly. "Phlox to the bridge." 

{Go ahead, Doctor,} T'Pol's voice came calmly. 

"Captain Archer has been infected. I'm relieving him of duty." 

"No, Phlox!" Archer staggered upright, one hand still wrapped around his stomach. "I'm fine. My ship needs me." 

{Captain, the logical course of action would be for you to remain in sickbay,} T'Pol said. {I am quite capable of, er, 'holding down the fort'. Sir.} 

"No. I'm on my way. Archer out." 

*** 

Archer clung to the arms of the captain's chair, fighting to stay upright as a swoon threatened to overwhelm him. It was now two hours since he had come down with this mysterious illness that had swept through the ship. Every single man on the ship had been affected by now, except, for some inexplicable reason Chef. Archer refused to go to his quarters, and had ordered a course change towards an uninhabited planet where they would stay until this crisis was resolved. Despite modern ideas and supposed practices about equality, the blatant truth was that there were not enough women to keep the ship running, especially with the spatial anomalies and the threat of imminent attack from the Xindi. Despite crippling intestinal agony and near-fever like conditions, some men had limped back to duty. Malcolm was sitting at his console, sweating and pasty-skinned, but grimly determined. Trip had dragged himself back to Engineering less than half an hour after one of his engineers had practically propelled him to sickbay. 

As Hoshi sat at her console, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she gazed absently at the captain. Intestinal pain, headaches, vomiting . . . the symptoms were beginning to sound familiar. Very familiar indeed. She shook her head, banishing the thought. It was impossible . . . wasn't it? So she sat, and she wondered. 

And the watcher laughed. 

*** 

Hoshi dragged herself back to her quarters. With every able-bodied man on the ship decommissioned, all the women were pulling double, even triple shifts to try and keep everything under control. When she had finally almost fallen over from exhaustion, she had staggered off the bridge, fully intending on catching a few hours of rest before returning to her station. First, though, she had dropped by sickbay. Phlox was still on his feet, but swaying dangerously. Hoshi had simply nodded to him, and then moved over to where Travis lay in a tight, foetal ball on a biobed. 

"How are you?" she asked softly, smoothing one hand over his brow. 

"Nnnngh . . ." he moaned, flicking one bloodshot eye open. "God, Hoshi, it feels like Jack the Ripper's having a field day in my gut. The pain . . ." he whimpered, closing his eyes and curling tighter. Hoshi suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Men were such babies. She stumbled into her quarters, not even bothering to change out of her uniform, and collapsed facedown onto the bed. After a long moment, she rolled over and squirmed until she could grab the blanket and pull it over herself. Despite her mental and physical exhaustion, she didn't fall asleep right away, instead lying awake, staring at the ceiling, as one hand absently rubbed soothing circles over her stomach. "What the hell is going one?" she wondered out loud finally. 

"Isn't it fun?" a familiar voice said from one corner of the room, and Hoshi twisted her head to the side, already knowing who she'd see. 

"Hello, Q." 

The female Q was sitting on the edge of Hoshi's desk, still wearing the scandalously short gold minidress and thigh-high leather boots of her previous visits. In one hand she absently held the handle of a long leather whip – no one had ever quite figured why exactly this had become part of the Q's ensemble other than that it had something to do with Malcolm's sexual preferences, and no one really wanted to know more about those. One leg was folded across the other, whether accidentally or purposefully revealing the entire length of one thigh and the matching gold underwear. "Hello, dear Hoshi," Q said, grinning wickedly. "Do you like my little joke?" 

Hoshi was about to retort with something about the safety of the crew, but suddenly realized that she did like it. "It does have a certain poetic justice about it," she conceded. "Looks like Trip's had a bit of his thunder pinched." 

Q cocked her head to one side, flipping curly golden brown tresses over one shoulder. "How so?" 

"He was the first to get pregnant – Malcolm's the first to PMS!" Hoshi couldn't hold it in longer. She started snickering, which soon turned into a full-out laugh, her chest heaving and her stomach jiggling a bit painfully. Q was a bit startled, then began to laugh too. They calmed down eventually, the occasional snicker still drifting through the air. 

"Will it last long?" Hoshi asked eventually, know that the Enterprise wouldn't be able to function with all these men feeling sorry for themselves. 

Q shrugged. "Five days or so. Then it should be back to normal." She grinned suddenly. "Until next month, of course." 

Hoshi laughed. "You wouldn't." 

"I did already," Q reminded her, then shrugged. "I probably won't though. Maybe just my dearest Mal-Mal." 

Hoshi snickered. "Please no. A bitchy Malcolm I don't think I could stand." She sighed. "I probably should tell them that they're just PMSing. Maybe it'll get me a bit more sympathy when the Cramps From Hell strike next." 

"You don't have to tell them _now_," Q reminded her, and Hoshi nodded soberly, pretending to think about it. 

She couldn't hold the expression long, though, and broke into a grin again. "I think it was worth that first horrible day for this, though. Thanks, Q." 

"No problem, darlin'. I live but to serve." Q hopped off the desk and walked towards her. "Must dash. I might drop in to comfort Dearest Malcolm for a bit, then I'm off." She raised a hand, but Hoshi stopped her. 

"One more question, Q: Why not Chef?" 

Q shrugged. "His peanut brittle is to die for. I think I'm addicted." 

Hoshi rolled her eyes. "I'll make sure he leaves a plate out for you as a thank-you." 

Q clapped her hands, delighted. "Oh, goodie! I should run. Places to go, people to do!" She cackled and waved one hand vaguely, leaving only the swiftly dissipating green smoke and main ghost of laughter behind her. Hoshi grinned into the darkness. 

*** 

Five days later: 

"Doctor's log. Five days ago, the entire male crew was suddenly afflicted with immediate post prandial upper abdominal distension, resulting in . . ." 

**FIN**


End file.
